The Adventure of the Bee Keeper's Violin
by Wai-Jing Waraugh
Summary: Holmes leaves retirement to solve a very personal case, with an unlikely new ally by his side. Could it lead to a discovery startling beyond any in his previously long career? Has he finally met his match?
1. Chapter 1: The Interview

The Adventure of the Bee Keeper's Violin

Chapter the First - The Interview

The scrutiny of the gentleman before me made me exceedingly uncomfortable. He was leaning casually back in his chair, yet his eyes bore unceasingly into me. I am not a nervous woman – I am a governess by occupation, and am used to the interrogative stares of wary parents – but this steady gaze unnerved me. The strong lamp, which had illuminated the book lying open at the table at his elbow prior to my arrival, had now been turned so that its light lay square upon the basket chair I had been so graciously ushered into. I immediately realized beyond a doubt that this dramatic lighting – for his nature might have been readily adapted to favour theatrical pursuits, if he had decided on such a path earlier in his life – allowed him to study me to best effect, whilst the dull grey glare from the window behind me veiled the hollows and crags of his keen face in sharp shadow, giving him an even more masterful and impressive appearance.

He looked like some great bird of prey, hulking on its perch. The hawk-like nose and the firm lips, pursed over the teeth which were clamped on his steadily-smoking pipe, gave him a tenacious air. His chin was moodily thrust downwards into the folds of mouse-coloured dressing-gown upon his chest, and he peered up at me from a beneath a slightly-furrowed brow and heavy eyelids. From beneath them, however, came that piercing gaze – not so much striking in its relentlessness, but in its intensity. I could see the wheels of that so highly-reputed mind turning beneath the crown of silver-fleck hair; their whirling was almost discernable within those dark pupils, so deeply sunken into the sockets by age and creased around the corners by constant mental taxation as to make them appear even more beady. They seemed to puncture the respectable tweed-suited front I had endeavored to project, read all the secrets I unknowingly carried upon my conscience, and gaze straight through me, contemplating the dreary Sussex countryside without the glass pane.

He raised a small magnifying glass, located conveniently on a bit of leather thronging about his neck, and gazed at me even more closely through its lens. I began to feel more and more like some anthropoid specimen, seeing the field researcher's expert eye, distorted by the powerful glass, examine me thoroughly, classifying and labeling me in his mind. A small sardonic smile, like that of the professor confidently recognizing familiar characteristics in a case study put before him, alighted upon his lips, and he reclined with satisfaction upon his cushion with the air of a triumphant Caesar.

"You reside in the country," stated the laconic voice, assured of its own astuteness. It was not a question, and my nod of acquiesce felt unnecessary and stupid.

"You are a keen cyclist."

Again I nodded.

"And a musician."

Another nod.

"Also a gardener, and you peruse the morning papers… really, it is a favourable position you have managed to find yourself in, Miss Baynes, to be allowed time for so many hobbies when not tending to your young charge."

Tired of humouring him with my dumb, repetitive gesture, I gave him a smile that expressed both my admiration and my impatience.

"Really Mr. Holmes, if you had not favoured me with your impressive powers of deduction, this visit would have been an irredeemable disappointment. Indeed, the family I am with is closely associated with my own kin, and they treat me much as one of their own. It is perfectly evident to you, and would be to myself if I should I have had a hand mirror, you infer my residence from the frayed patches at the shoulder of my jacket and the hem of my skirt where I have passed close to hedgerows on a daily basis; from the imprint on the side of my shoes that my feet often come into contact with the pedals of a bicycle; from the slight spatulation of my fingertips – I am not so conceited as to refrain from criticizing a lady's own hands – that I regularly play a musical instrument; and from the ink imprints of letters on my hands, as well as the earth caught in my sleeve cuffs, that I have both read the periodicals and dabbled in the garden quite recently."

He released his grip on his eyeglass and instead rested his head on his hand, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair, considering me anew. Mischievous lights played in his eyes. It seemed I had amused him.

"Well done, dear lady, brilliantly deduced! It seems you are familiar with my techniques. While you did not follow my exact train of thought – you will excuse me for examining the brambles caught in your stockings near the ankle – everything you have said is quite valid. These observations of mine are, indeed, the most elementary aspect of my practice, and if I seem impudent to subject your person to them, merely do so out of my own peculiar habit."

I waved his deferral away. I was by no means offended, and quite pleased at having won his approval. I was emboldened to attempt more.

"Indeed, I take no offense. I am happy to have entertained you for a few moments, if only in a preemptory fashion, seeing as you have few visitors, and though your bees are productive, you must yet console your latent mind with much reading of books and composition upon the violin."

I rather selfishly felt a great deal of satisfaction as I watched those smug eyes widen and the relaxed tilt of the body swing violently forward in its chair before he tempered his surprise. He was silent for a few moments, and I feared I had offended him; then suddenly he slapped his knee, and his whole slender frame shook in hearty, though nearly silent, laughter which ended in a breathless gasp and a chagrinned look.

"Bravo! Really, it is too fine; I doubt I have ever had such an astounding or scintillating conversation in my long career! My dear, I am indeed astounded, I hardly expected a young lady like you to have mastered what distinguished investigators at the Yard haven't the faintest-! Ahem! Anyhow! Might I hear your reasoning, as you have revealed mine concerning yourself and I have great difficulty in discerning my own habits, having lived in them for so long?"

I smiled with inner pride, pleased beyond measure at his response. "Certainly. You have a bit of cocoanut matting at your door which gives a distinct impression of the recent footfalls upon it. The only clear impressions upon it are those of your own patent leather boots, which, since you are in your slippers, I observed near the door, and easily recognized their corresponding shape. They are easily read; you are in a habit of taking up your cane from the left side of the door last thing before leaving, and replacing your hat and overcoat on the pegs at the right upon re-entering, tracing a seemingly circuitous route upon the mating. Your steps are methodical in routine, and though often trod, one set of impressions has grown deep in a solitary track. Any footfalls outside of these would therefore be easily detected, and I observed none."

"Capital! Perfectly feasible! I knew the laying of the mat was not carried out on a mere whim. Today it has proven the source of much entertainment. Pray continue!"

"I noticed a scrap of honeycomb powder on the cuff of your coat sleeve as I placed my own overcoat beside it at the door. The comb would only adhere if moistened with honey; hence I deduced that you had an abundance of harvest from your bees, if you could so carelessly allow it to moisten your sleeve after having removed your beekeeper's regulation outer garb. There is a tiny cut upon your knuckle, too slight too be plastered, too thin to be inflicted by a razor or letter opener. Therefore, you have been rifling through volumes and sustained a paper cut. You might have been turning through legal or business papers or a postal correspondence, but you would hardly handle them as haphazardly as a large, cumbersome volume. Finally, I noticed that that rug before the shelf upon which your instrument case resides has been rubbed all in one direction, towards the wall, to the point that it is quite beginning to thin in one particular spot. Obviously, your path from the armchair you are now seated in to that shelf is a well worn one. Thus, as you have deduced my hobbies, I have discovered yours."

As I concluded, Holmes condescended to offer enthusiastic, though brief, applause, as though I had just completed a piece of music he found favourably performed.

"Brilliant! A methodology after my own heart! I feel rather like a head of faculty discussing theories with my associate professor!" - I was bemused by his assuming of the superior role even as he complimented me – "Marvelously done! It is indeed true that though the bees prosper, the buzzing of my own mind has grown quiet of late, and I have sought to preoccupy it with music and the contemplation of my garret library, having had no means to purchase chemicals in this out-of-the-way corner of the realm, and no Watson or Lestrade has yet come from London to provide me with either ammonia or outrage from London. I hoped my first visitor in some time might bring me an interesting problem, and I certainly find you most welcome company on this grey, unremarkable morn. My own particular interest, at present, is this: composition rather than mere recital upon the violin is a rather exact deduction, and though you have explained the involvement of the violin, you have not justified your inclusion of this rather specific detail."

I saw a gleam of knowing in his smile as he lay back again, awaiting my justification. I felt rather like a chess player with my opponent waiting to criticize my next move.

"Well Mr. Holmes, it may have been presumptuous of me, but I counted on your knowledge as a composer to shed light on a document of interest which I happen to have acquired."

So saying, I reached into the little black leather valise I had brought with me, and extracting a sheet of paper, I smoothed it and delivered it to his nimble, eagerly awaiting fingers.


	2. Chapter 2: A Cipher in a Symphony

Chapter the Second – A Cipher in a Symphony

Holmes raised the paper eagerly to his eye level and scrutinized it meticulously. I could see by the expression of partially veiled near-rapture on his face that it intrigued him greatly. After a minute's care-filled examination, he glanced over it again, this time with the powerful lens, then lounged back in his chair with an air of self-satisfaction. He began to rattle off a list of observations, rather like an expert consultant asked to evaluate an artifact.

"Hum, most curious… sheet music, on paper lighter than foolscap yet coarser than average desk stationery… it's obviously come from the printers, as there's barely any trace of ink bleed, nor visible scratches from a nib. No title of the piece, just 'for violin', and the composer's name, one Basil Sigerson. An unknown in the musical community, I presume. There are underneath that four lines of staves, broken into eight bars of irregular length… most singular, no music is usually written in such a haphazard fashion… one moment-"

He strode with sudden energy along that well-trod trail on the carpet and took from the battered case a truly magnificent instrument, all polished wood and taunt strings, which looked as though it had been very well cared for. The latent artist in Holmes, often hinted at by his faithful biographer but seldom revealed to the public, peeped out for a moment as the steely eyes stole a brief, loving glance at the instrument. He brought it to bear upon his shoulder and beneath his chin with some tenderness, then with the hand of a practiced musician, after another quick glance at the paper, drew the bow across the strings.

The next minute was rather excruciating. Though Holmes coaxed the notes expertly from the instrument and each was beautifully pure in quality, the tune was discordant and nonsensical. It sounded rather as though the composer had selected the notes at random. Holmes nevertheless completed the piece and laid the violin down ruefully, smiling in sympathy at seeing me wincing in my seat.

"Hardly pleasant, I know… a piece of music not fit to be played. How ironic. Is there some significance to this sheet, Miss Baynes?"

"I should think so," I replied, quickly smothering a smiling which I believe he nevertheless observed, his sharp eyes watching my every unwitting nuisance. "It was sent to every police outpost in London, and every regional station as well. Every constable in this corner of Britannia has seen a facsimile of it. Yet why it was delivered only to the police and its meaning remain a mystery at large."

"A mystery… I remember it from the papers now. A small article it was about a week ago, 'The Mysterious Symphony'. Hardly long enough nor tuneful enough to be called a symphony, but our humble reporters can hardly all be experts on the musical arts. The same applies to our constabulary, I suppose. The matter has not resurfaced in the paper of late. An article run three days after the original sufficed to say in less than five lines that numerous musicians of particular skill and genius could make head nor tail of it, so I shouldn't feel too ashamed of my own performance. Sent to every policeman… so how did you come to have a copy, Miss Baynes?"

It was a question I had been awaiting. "My uncle gave it to me, Mr. Holmes. He is the former Inspector Baynes of the Surrey Constabulary. He is my father's elder brother, and before he retired was active in the force for a good thirty years. I believe you may have corroborated with him on the case of the Tiger of San Pedro."

Holmes considered me for a few moments, then a broad smile spread across the sardonic lips and he slapped his knee with that silent laughter that is so peculiar to him.

"Really! Of course! Valerie Baynes… I wondered that the name seemed familiar. Your name keeps on cropping up on the guest lists of those police functions to which I am invited but never go to. I remember Inspector Baynes quite well… his techniques were somewhat different to mine, more conventional by necessity I suppose, but I greatly commend his powers of observation. No wonder you were able to adopt my own techniques so readily!"

Again I smiled at his self-absorption; although his incredibly invariable rate of success perhaps justified him being so. "It was a great honour for him to be involved in that case with you, Mr. Holmes. He received some indirect publicity in the papers through it, and he was rapidly promoted. He had been chief constable in Surrey for nigh on ten years when he retired three years ago."

Holmes nodded absently, a light of reminiscence in his eyes. "I did wonder how I came to be given this."

He took a tiny oval of card from his dressing gown pocket and held it out for me to see. To my surprise it was a miniature of my own face, cut from a photograph.

"Why, that's-"

"From the Rural Police Force's Annual ball of 19--, two years ago. It was sent to me by Inspector Mathers, current chief constable of Surrey. I have few visitors nowadays and you can imagine many private citizens with a former grudge may wish to enter my presence through innocent-seeming pretext. When I received notice that you were calling upon me this morning, I wired Scotland Yard for some means of confirming your identity. I must say, that shade of lilac you were wearing suits you admirably."

I stared at him. The photograph was devoid of colour of course, so how he could possibly have known the colour of that dress, which was a particular favourite of mine, had me momentarily staggered.

"Really Mr. Holmes," I said in reproach, my suspicions aroused, "you pretend to make some petty display of deductions about me when you are obviously previously informed! Who's to say all your past brilliance so glorified in the past wasn't just the results of a secret, thorough research into your unwitting subjects! Such fraudulent means may impress your average dull-witted layman or simple-minded housewife, but it won't deceive me!"

He didn't bat an eyelid, but absently knocked a fragment of used shag tobacco from his pipe, refilling it as he spoke. "So many times I have heard it – that I must be a wizard or a fraud when in fact, I am a connoisseur of crime, or rather, of details. You may be aware that I have written a trifling monograph on the identifying of different brands of tobacco from the characteristics of the ash; you can imagine, then, that I can differentiate between numerous shades of grey with relative ease. It is a skill which can also be applied to the interpretation of photographs. Different greys correspond with different hues, and after years of carefully observing this effect, I deduced that the shade of your dress was either a pale lilac or apricot. No other colours would appear as that particular shade of grey in the photograph, and noticing that the earrings you wear today are of amethyst, the lilac became the most likely probability. Now, where is the wizardry or fraudulence in that?"

What he said was so sensible, yet so astounding that I could do naught but stare at his eager face, almost impish in its self assurance; then it was my turn to laugh.

"I beg your pardon! You have surpassed all my expectations! But tell me, what can be made of this sheet music?"

He struck a light, looking at me for permission as he did so, then puffed absently on his pipe for a moment before taking up the paper again and analysing it with close attention.

"Indeed, it is hardly useful musically… I assume you have considered that line of enquiry yourself, since it proved unsatisfactory and you have hence come to me."

"Yes, my uncle thought I might be able to assist the Surrey police, since I myself play the violin a bit – nothing high-brow, you understand, merely the Irish folksongs from my family's ancestral home – but the result when I tried to play it was much the same as yours."

"Quite so. It does my pride well to know you do not think ill of my playing. The solution must lie elsewhere then. Cryptology is a particular interest of mine; since each note in music can be represented with one of the seven letters from 'A' to 'G', let's try first to convert these notes to their corresponding letters, and see what results it garners."

He took up a scrap of paper from the innumerable which dotted the room and a pencil from a nearby drawer. The pencil scrambled fitfully over the paper as he consulted the sheet music and noted down the letters. He frowned at what he had obtained:

F A A E / G F / G E G /

E G D A G G E A E D /

C G G E / A G / G E /

A G G E G A /

"It makes no sense," he muttered, scowling at his scrawls. "Hmm… ah, but these marks here!" He jabbed the pencil at some mysterious marks underneath the staves. "These are not musical notation, unless these are lyrics written in Morse code… no, they are too repetitive for that. We must seek out another system. These markings appear to only occur under an 'A' or a 'G'. Indeed, these two notes occur far too frequently. Hum. Let's omit these notes and see what we are left with." He printed a new copy underneath his first attempt, excluding the letters marked with dots and strokes underneath:

F A . E / . F / . E N /

E . D A . G E . E D /

C . . E / . . / . E /

. . G E . . /

"This looks slightly more promising," he murmured, smilingly considering the paper from beneath semi-closed eyelids. He tapped the pencil on the arm of his chair at much the same pace a dog on the scent might wag its tail in the sheer joy of the pursuit. He was positively thriving on the mental stimulation before him. His eyes were alight, the smoke issuing from the pipe furiously, as though he were some great factory in the countryside, inner workings operating furiously, wreathed in the smoke of his own productiveness.

"These markings are rather queer… a series of strokes, varying in number, occur under the G's, whilst dots are underneath the A's… they are not idle markings, as they are laid out in a grid to make them easier to count. Surely the message, if that is indeed what this is, doesn't consist merely of the letters 'A' to 'G'. Which means these other markings must indicate the place in the alphabet of the missing letters. Since the A's correspond with dots, I assume the number of dots refers to the number of places before or after it that the real letter is situated at in the alphabet. Since 'A' is at the head of the alphabet, I assume the dots will take us back round to the end, as it is easier than drawing some twenty-odd strokes beneath each note. There are twelve dots under the first omitted indicated 'A'. Let's go back twelve letters and see- ah! We have a 'T'! F-A-T-E, 'fate'. Which means strokes indicate going forward through the alphabet! Indeed, eight places past a 'G' makes an 'O'! Ha ha! I think we have it!"

The pencil dashed back and forth over the paper, hovering over each marking as he counted them, marking down a letter as he deciphered it. Finally, he held the paper out to me with a sense of finality. It read:

F A T E / O F / M E N /

E N D A N G E R E D /

C O M E / T O / M E /

U R G E N T /

"Ah, but it is still cryptic," he murmured as I read it. "'Come to me', it says… but until we know who this Sigerson is…" He trailed off, looking at me, as though for an explanation. Trying hard not to smile, I told him bluntly:

"But that is why I came here."

As I said it, I pulled a paper from my pocket and held it out to him. It was printed with the exact same message as he had just deciphered, in my own handwriting.

We sat for a minute in stalemate, neither of us saying a word. Then Holmes' shoulders shook; at last he gave a hearty laugh, reeling about in his chair.

"Oh it is too fine! I never imagined when I sent my curious epistles out all the local constabularies that I would encounter such a novel and marvelous applicant! My dear lady, you are to be congratulated!" Once more he clapped his hands; he rose to his feet in an ovation. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment at the enthused praise, so out of character with the reserved, calculating man I had thus encountered. I could not resist a Parthian shot, however:

"And I must criticize you, Mr. Holmes. You deduced that I peruse the morning papers; that is not quite true. In fact, on my way down in the train, I was sorting through some old newspaper clippings kept by my uncle, concerning your adventures. In the case of Black Peter, I found the pseudonym 'Capt. Basil'; in your triumphant return from the dead, you mentioned your travels as the Norwegian explorer, Sigerson. The resulting inference was, as you would say, elementary."

He chuckled at that, resuming his seat with a return of his previous nonchalance. "Quite true, that; if I seriously sought to create a cipher, I would devise one that would be impossible to crack. Indeed, for that purpose, I have numerous documents in a curious language, quite unrecognizable to even the most learned linguists or cryptologists, locked away in a safe somewhere in London, should the war effort of this fine country crave need of them. As it was, this simple device has perhaps proved too difficult. Not a single visitor from the Yard, or any of the neighbouring constabilities! Not a single observant, open-minded individual among them! Ah, but to other matters! Now that you have indeed come, you probably wish to know why I sent out this summons."

He wandered idly to the mantelpiece, refilling his pipe from a Turkish slipper I had noticed, with some amusement, residing beside the hearth, filled with fresh tobacco. When he turned back to face me, arms folded across his lean frame, all signs of joviality had disappeared from the sharp, aquiline features, and the expression he turned upon me was grave in the extreme.


	3. Chapter 3: The Deceased Veteran

Chapter the Third The Deceased Veteran

Holmes was silent for some time, seemingly collecting his thoughts. As he was the obvious master of proceedings, I awaited him patiently, my curiosity ever growing in this strange affair. Finally he took the pipe from betwixt his lips and began to speak, watching me closely as he did so.

"I must confess, Miss Baynes, and I hope you will not feel insulted, that when I sent out my cryptic sheet music I did not expect someone such as yourself to answer it. I would be lying if I claimed to be prepared to take you into my full confidence without hesitation. Nevertheless, you are my only applicant, and a most deserving one in a mental capacity. It would be callous of me, however, if I didn't warn you that my further plans behind this summons may be out of your league. There is a very real danger in the case which, in my retirement, has sought me out and will not let me remain idly by. I wished to attract some protégé who could aid me in its investigation; however, if I confide in you even on a purely theoretical level, your life may be endangered by your involvement, however slight. I want to make that perfectly clear, and will take no offence if you wish to bypass the matter and perhaps browse with me over tea some of my records of past cases which you are most welcome to peruse somewhat more light-heartedly; or else you can walk straight out my door, if you should wish to do so. What proceeds from here lies solely with you."

I swallowed the lump that had arisen in my throat. I had not had any preconceived notions of the possible gravitas of the matter when I had taken up Mr. Holmes' code-breaking exercise, so seemingly innocent at the time, and was somewhat taken aback by his seriousness. I could understand my position in his regard, however, as a woman upon whom thirty years of age had encroached a few years ago, respectable and in possession of a rather unremarkable life. I appreciated that he had considered my safety, and was also conscious that I was a complete unknown to him. His attitude to women has been made somewhat notorious through the popular writings of his former companion, so much so that the triumph of Irene Adler was celebrated with great festivity by some suffragette groups in London. I could not help but share their vexation on some points. He thinks that the vast majority of our sex are incurably flighty and irrational, and thus far he had had no indication that I might not prove more of a hindrance than a help to him. His documented fierce self-reliance and disdain for the ineptitude of others made me realize just how privileged this interview with him was. Having considered his words carefully, I made my reply, carefully choosing my words, and absolutely meaning every single one that left my lips.

"I appreciate your warning, Mr. Holmes, but as of yet you do not deter me in the slightest. I hope that I might have a third choice, and that I will be neither cosseted with more tame distractions nor bundled out the door. If you will speak what is on your mind, I give you my most solemn assurances that what you say will not be repeated to anybody else in the world. I am from a family of policemen, Mr. Holmes; I understand fully what 'confidentiality' should be. I also know something of just what sort of darkness can lurk the underside of our fair country, though my knowledge pales into insignificance when set beside your own. Nevertheless, I am not a nervous person, nor an easily intimidated one, despite my being a woman. Confide in me, and I will uphold your trust in me, whatever the consequences of this meeting."

He considered my answer at length, seeming to weigh up my every word in his mind. Finally, he decided; apparently satisfied, he spoke on.

"I take it, Miss Baynes, that since you have, as you said, recently acquainted yourself with my work, you will be familiar with what was rather sensationally termed my 'Last Bow'?"

"Why yes, of course," I answered as I reflected, recalling my notes; I had memorized the records of his most prominent cases on my way down in the train. I remembered that particular case perfectly well. It had been billed as his final case, or proverbial 'Last Bow' from the profession. The newspapers had since published a few of his later cases thereafter - a few unofficial investigations he had undertaken in his retirement, as well as a couple from previous years that had thereto been left untold - but the so-called 'Last Bow' was perhaps the most significant case of his very impressive career; his war service, undertaken mostly overseas in a high-risk undercover operation. It had delighted the media and the masses upon its publication, during the throes of the Great War. Patriotism had become the only flavour of the times, and the involvement of such a great figure in criminology in the war effort had made volunteering in the forces the fashionable thing to do. Almost overnight, everyone had decided that they wanted to help their country, just like Mr Sherlock Holmes – though they, I trusted, did so in a more conventional manner. The war ministers must have been dancing around the cabinet when that article appeared over a full two-leaf spread, right next to a recruiting advertisement.

"Well then, you will find this most interesting."

He reached into the drawer of the little side table at this elbow and drew out a newspaper clipping, which he handed to me. The bold black headline jolted my senses as soon as my eyes deciphered what it read:

PATRIOT FOUND DEAD IN COUNTRY HOME

Retired war veteran Charles Altamont was found dead in  
his Sussex cottage yesterday morning. The former  
undercover operative was found at the foot of a steep flight  
of stairs by his valet, having already expired from severe  
cranial injuries. Police are investigating the possibility of  
foul play, however such conjecture, according to a Scotland  
Yard representative, seems highly unlikely. We extend our  
deepest sympathies to the deceased's family, and mourn the  
passing of one who did our fair country such an invaluable  
service during the Great War.

The article came from the local Sussex newspaper and was dated a month prior. Having read the article twice, once hastily to garner its meaning and again more carefully, I stared over it at Mr. Holmes. My astonishment must have been written on my face; he watched my expression pointedly, waiting for me to voice my opinion.

"But that's you! Altamont was you!"

I remembered well the alias he used to pass himself off as a traitorous Irish-American informant; I had been astounded when I had read it by Holmes' audacity to attempt such a charade. Now I eyed the man before me uncertainly. It was suspicious; if this man claimed to be Holmes, yet a man identified as Altamont had been found dead… I ran through all the knowledge of Holmes I had gleaned from the papers, searching this individual for any visible flaws or signs of unease. If this was all an elaborate ruse…

"Oh, don't you fear in that regard, my dear lady; I am the genuine article," he assured me, as though he had read the doubts in my mind as easily as I had read the printed words before me. "For all you know, I suppose, I could be a cunning impostor altering my face with modelled putty like a matinee street-thespian and spinning fantastic lines about my celebrated career in detection," he mused, unconsciously rubbing the bridge of his distinctive nose at the notion, "but you have my word that I am who I purport to be. I have little in the way of actual evidence of who I am, other than my assurance that it is actually so; I am not so foolish as to have proof of identity about the house so that brutes wishing retribution upon me can easily check that they have the right man. You could get my dear old friend Lestrade out from his London townhouse to identify me if you wish, or entreat my dear faithful Watson to temporarily leave his latest wife for the same purpose."

I considered his words, swiftly analysed the situation, and made my decision. The conviction in his eye decided me, I suppose. Men love to speak derivatively of so-called 'feminine intuition', but to me it felt like something far more definite than such spiritual oddities. It was a certainty, plain and simple. Perhaps it helped, the way he pronounced the word 'wife' like some sort of vulgarity; Holmes' well-documented contempt for 'insipid, hysterical women' made itself plain in this individual before me.

"That would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Holmes. I never seriously doubted your identity; after all, my contact with you was initiated by the police force, so I trust it to be genuine. My greater interest lies in the identity of this 'Altamont'. Perhaps you yourself have an explanation…?"

He looked back at me with a dark expression, fiddling distractedly with the stem of his pipe. Obviously he indeed had an explanation, and whatever it was clearly displeased him.

"'Altamont' was a genuine soldier who served in the War," he began, "though it wasn't his real name. I won't betray him in death by revealing his true personage; besides it is quite irrelevant, as he voluntarily chose to give up any trace of the civilian personality he had possessed before the sounds of conflict echoed throughout Europe. The poor fellow was disillusioned when he came back to peacetime, to the country he had so diligently protected and kept free from corrupt foreign forces. Some of the boys who come back have seen such atrocities during their service that they cannot settle back into a normal life; the sheer monotony of it drives them mad. This one was just such a case. I had several interviews with him after checking his war record to make sure he was a genuine psychological case, as well as a genuine patriot. You must certainly realize by now that my interest in him is more than just habitual curiosity; my concern for him is that of an employer for an employee. I hired him to pose as Altamont – as me."

He paused to let this revelation settle in the silence of the homely little room. Once I had recovered from my surprise, I waited, possessed by the suspense, eager for him to continue.

"I knew after my stint in America that my former fellow 'deserters' might hold a grudge against me and come to pursue the issue; I knew as surely as I knew all those years ago that that tiger of a man, Colonel Moran, would come to exact his master's vengeance from the hell's pit I managed to hurl him into." As I listened, I realized that a few American mannerisms peppered his brisk British-accented English. "During the mop-up of the war my assailants were kept at arm's distance by national security and their own affairs, but I did not doubt that some would bide their time and bear enough ill-will to make an attempt upon my person at some point. Soon after I retired, having set up this humble establishment and made arrangements for my whereabouts to be disclosed to only a few close confidantes, I sought a fellow to take up the role, and found this poor chap on a recommendation. I gave him a water-tight identity, as Altamont, and sent him out to live in the countryside, just a few leagues away from my real abode. You can imagine the thrill the bored former officer would have had, pretending to be an internationally-recognized figure – as I made no secret to him of my identity – living each day in anticipation, half-expecting an assassination attempt at any moment. The fellow must have thoroughly enjoyed himself for the two years he sustained the charade. The thought of that is my only slim consolation for his untimely death. He would've been useless in any peacetime occupation, he was better off being taken bodily by the war that had already possessed his soul. Oh, it wasn't a suicide mission I sent him on, by any means. I'm not so callous as to send a man to his death in my place. I took several precautions which, unfortunately, proved ineffective. I had an agent – the valet – posted as a live-in ally should an attack occur at any hour. Dogs patrolled the property at night; a telephone – both a readily visible one and a concealed one – were installed with a direct line to the local constabulary. I had him write fortnightly reports, and had facsimiles of them sent for my inspective once a month. But by Jove, they got him nevertheless."

He stopped and leaned back in his chair, puffing fitfully at his pipe as though the tobacco fumes consoled him somewhat. I didn't know what to say. I found the whole idea quite a fantastic thing, so long after the war had faded into legend and dew-eyed veteran's reminisce. Yet it was undoubtedly true. To think, that some cruel agencies could nurture a fierce grudge for such a long time…

"Who could have done such a thing?" I asked at length.

He came suddenly out of his reverie to answer. "Oh, there are several old confederates from those days who would have loved to have had a swing at my head, although I'm not sure how many of them would still actually care enough to cross the Atlantic and have a genuine bash at it. However, there was one fellow in particular whose involvement I fear appears to be implicated. A man by the name of O'Rourke, a genuine Irish-American, although, regrettably, a far more fearsome fish than Altamont was, quite the shark in international waters. O'Rourke was originally something in the way of being a chemist, although he dealt exclusively with narcotics. That was how he made himself quite infamous. The Americans gave him the preposterous nickname – a thoroughly American cultural trait, that - as the 'Pepper-Pot Poisoner'. He was an expert at procuring deadly drugs and processing them to a highly-concentrated powder, a few milligrams of which could prove lethal. We were fairly close associates during my years in America, as close as you can get in such a business where very survival depends on maintaining a healthy distrust of everyone; and he was quite cut up that I was recruited by Von Bork instead of him. You can imagine how much he would've relished visiting our diplomats, offering them a pinch of snuff or sliding a packet of powder discretely into a salt cellar, then rifling through their papers when they were incapacitated. Luckily the Germans preferred infiltration over assassination at that time."

"But," I interjected, "the main cause of death, in this incident was ascertained to be from head injuries, not poison?"

"As mentioned in the newspaper report, yes, a hard blow to the head killed him. However, contrary to the reports, the manner of the death was very suspicious. I had the exact circumstances hushed up in order to give the perpetrator a false sense of security and buy myself some time in which to work. Perhaps you would like to hear the exact circumstances, Miss Daynes, and see what conclusions you can draw from them?"

I gave him a quizzical look. That expression of laconic superiority was in his eye again. A further test, it was, of how well I could utilize his techniques. Well, I was already fair game; why not see if I could help my suffragist sisters' cause by proving my mettle against this most accomplished of menfolk?

"Alright, Mister Holmes," I answered, hoping neither my nervousness nor my enthusiasm were too apparent. "If you could present me with the proper data, I shall see what I can manage."

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Yes, I know. It's been a ridiculously long time since I updated this story. I am sincerely very sorry. However, the plotline has been difficult to structure, and I wanted to make sure I did it right. The plot is very involved; certain details have to be established properly, I don't want to look back and realize I have made a mistake or omitted some vital clue._

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter, belated though it is. At least now, the nature of the mystery is a little clearer._

_You can expect another chapter to follow. Although, considering everything else I'm working on and how much more difficult the next chapter will be to write, I don't know when you can expect it. Probably not for a while. Please try to bear with me._

_~ W.J._

_**Edit**: cleaned up this chapter to get rid of a few repetitious lines and inconsistencies.  
I only just realized that in a few places I typed 'Daynes' instead of 'Baynes'. Gah! So much for 'mastery of the plot'!_


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